


Ring My Bell (Curiosity Killed the Cat)

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Vaginal Sex, also i wrote this at 2am so forgive any glaring spelling/grammar mistakes, i am but a simple trash goblin, wow i forgot how hard writing BJ's dialogue is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6285187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn’t think it’d actually work - but it did, and now you’re stuck with an angry poltergeist with only one thing on his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ring My Bell (Curiosity Killed the Cat)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I'm a gross mess, I get that. Enjoy.

So, it wasn’t the _smartest_ idea you’ve ever had.

Curiosity killed the cat, isn’t that what people say?

But come on. Really? You’d chanted ‘Bloody Mary’ into a hundred mirrors at a hundred different slumber parties without flinching - how was this any different? A stupid urban legend, one passed around among gullible kids and gossipy soccer moms and finally onto you. But you’re an adult - too mature to be scared or superstitious.

Not quite past curiosity, though.

Nothing will happen, you _know_ nothing will happen, but there’s still that little voice in the back of your head that wants to know for sure, that demands satisfaction. You know how silly you look, sitting cross-legged on your bed, alone in the dark, talking to yourself - you’d be ashamed if there was anyone around to judge you for this.

“Beetlejuice,”

For some reason, your heart beat quickens, just slightly.

“Beetlejuice,”

The wind outside howls, a tree branch skittering against your window.

“ _Beetlejuice_.”

Nothing. Of course. Of course it’s nothing. You can’t even be disappointed because your expectations were approximately zero. Which is probably why, when the floor cracks open with a noise that’s half atonal organ music and half feral cat-in-a-blender, you find yourself more or less frozen in astonishment and panic. Your entire bedroom shakes, the miniature abyss on your floor emitting an animal howl, your lights flickering dramatically as some _thing_ begins to rise out of the wreckage. A headstone. No, not just a headstone, an entire _grave_ , complete with freshly turned earth.

You barely have time to be concerned with the fact that your bedroom has been turned into a very small cemetery when you hear - laughter? An unearthly cackle fills the room.

You should have run. _That_ would have been smart.

Instead you watch in fascinated horror as the figure of a man more or less explodes out of the grave, floats upwards, and throws his arms wide in a gesture that screams _TA-DA!_

“You’re-” your voice cracks, panic constricting your throat. 

He leers at you. “The ghost with the most, babe,” his voice is sandpaper-rough, oozing from between mossy teeth. He’s tall, made to seem even taller by the halo of rats-nest hair framing his corpse-pale face, his sunken eyes giving you a frank once over. He makes a show of brushing the fresh dirt from his already filthy suit, garish black and white stripes, then settles himself comfortably atop the headstone.

This has to be a dream. It has to. That knowledge helps quell your panic, or maybe you’re just so deep in shock that you’re come full circle. “You’re real,” you deadpan, slowly finding your feet and climbing off the bed. He - Beetlejuice - raises an eyebrow.

“Real? You’re asking if I’m _real_? I make one hell of an entrance, and let me tell you this kind of travel does not come cheap, freshly off _parole_ might I add, had Juno so far up my ass so far I could fuckin’ _taste_ her (which I do not recommend, by the way), _me_ , the Neitherworld’s _premiere_ bio-exorcist and businessman and you have the nerve to ask me if I’m REAL?” His rapid-fire way of speaking might throw you for a loop if this wasn’t a dream, which is totally has to be, and you find yourself chuckling in quiet disbelief. 

“Yeah. I guess. You’re real? I didn’t think you’d be real.” 

Beetlejuice steeples his fingers for a long moment, heaving a tense sigh. “So you don’t got a job for me, that what you’re saying? That what I travelled all this way for? Just so pretty little miss shit-fer-brains can cry wolf? Nooooo-oo-oo.”

“Hey, that’s, um-” what do you _say_ to a pissed off Poltergeist? “-not very nice.”

Beetlejuice barks out a laugh, hopping off the headstone and beginning to pace the length of your room - this is getting more absurd by the minute, you’re nearly ready to pinch yourself.

“ _ **I’m** not very nice._ I’m **dead** _._ Dead, dead, deadski. _Undead_ , really, but you don’t give a shit, do you? Just wanted to pull the fire alarm to see if the sprinklers’d go off, huh? Well sweetcheeks, you ring my bell, you gotta lick the pump, y’know what I mean?” 

“I _really_ don’t.”

He’s quicker than you thought he’d be, crossing the room to close clammy fingers around your wrist, the delicate bones grinding together under his iron grip. This isn’t a dream - his filthy nails dig ragged half-moons into your skin, and you can feel it with the kind of clarity that means this is actually happening. You’ve summoned some kind of repugnant, foul-mouthed spirit, and he’s furious with you.

 _Definitely_ not the smartest idea you’ve ever had.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit_ ,” you flail ineffectively in his grip, trying desperately to resist as he drags you back towards his headstone. Maybe he can be reasoned with? The manic glint in his eye says otherwise, but you have to try. “Beetlejuice -”

He claps his free hand over your mouth, dragging you in so close that his lips graze your ear, hot breath ghosting over your neck. You shiver in disgust, gooseflesh rising on your arms. “Let’s put that mouth to better use, huh? Make the trip here _worth my while_.”

Jagged teeth sink into your earlobe, just hard enough to hurt, and you spit a few choice curses at him, muffled by his palm.

Another shiver runs down your spine.

“Knees. Get on ‘em, sweets. And before you start yakkin’ about _‘you can’t make me!’_ ” - at this, he does a perfect impression of your own voice, so bizarrely familiar that your knees nearly give out - “or ‘ _get lost, creep!_ ’, I been bottled up for six hundred years, give or take. You really wanna let me loose on this town? Every dog has his day, you _really_ want this to be mine?”

The gravity of the situation hits you. You summoned this monster, and have _no_ idea how to put him back. Given the destruction he’s done to your bedroom, the limits of the chaos he can cause seem too outlandish to even fathom.

You sink to your knees.

For a moment you just stare at the front of his trousers, the filthy black and white stripes like a seeing-eye puzzle from hell. Impatient, Beetlejuice reaches down and grabs a handful of his own crotch, wiggling his eyebrows when you stare up at him with irritation and disgust. “Get to it, babes.”

Batting his hands away, you work the button and rusty zip, freeing his half-hard cock. It’s larger than you anticipated, and you stare with morbid fascination for as long as you dare, wrapping your fingers around his length and licking a broad stripe up the underside.

Above you, Beetlejuice hisses through his teeth.

Emboldened, you repeat the motion, running the flat of your tongue from root to tip, getting him slick enough so that you can begin a slow rhythm with your hand. He’s too large to take entirely, and he hardens quickly under your attentions. You’ve always been good at this, enjoyed this, found something both humiliating and empowering about being used for someone else’s pleasure. Beetlejuice growls in encouragement and you fit your mouth over his cock, swirling your tongue once around the head before sinking down as far as you’re able.

“Ohhhhhhhh _yeah_ sweets, that’s the stuff,” a large hand tangles itself in your hair, and combined with the ragged timbre of his voice - warmth blooms in your belly, settling hot and slick between your thighs. You find a rhythm, the press of his fingers on your scalp encouraging you to take more and more of his leaking cock, until he’s pressed to the back of your throat. It takes all your willpower to suppress your gag reflex and Beetlejuice groans loudly as your throat works over his length, muttering bizarre rapidfire praise under his breath.

You slip your hand under the waistband of your pajamas, finding yourself practically dripping. Here you are, being face-fucked by a dead guy, and all your body can say is: _more_.  Without preamble, you slide two digits into yourself, thumb working your clit, and you can’t help but moan around the thickness of his cock.

Beetlejuice looks down, catching you in the act and you flush with embarrassment - but it’s too good to stop, sucking in counterpoint with your own fingers, the coil of arousal tightening in your belly.

“Gettin’ off on this huh? You are _sick_ , kid, reeeeeeeeal sick,” he chuckles gleefully, fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you backwards, your lips popping off the swollen head of his cock with an obscene ‘pop’. Panting, your lips feeling swollen, eyes heavy, you meet his gaze - trying to be defiant, desperate for some control.

No dice.

The throb in your cunt is impossible to ignore, you don’t know what it is about him, he seems utterly _insane_ , unpredictable and irritating and self-important more than a little disgusting, but _God_ you want him to fuck you until your knees gave out. Examining the impulse seems redundant - this is beyond fucked up, has been from the moment your fucking floor cracked open and the “ _Neitherworld’s premiere bio-exorcist”_ popped out of it like Satan’s own Jack-in-the-Box.

Hand still wrapped in your hair, he drags you to your feet, free hand running up your side, sliding insidiously beneath your shirt to grope roughly at your tits. You bite down on your lip to keep from whimpering - arching your back into his hands ratchets the tension on your abused scalp up - you’re literally caught between pain and pleasure, wanting _more_ , but not able to escape the hurt.

It’s delicious, damn him.

“Needy little slut, aren’t ya?” He asks conversationally, pressing in close so you can feel his erection pressing hard against your thigh, hot as a brand. This time, you don’t manage to stifle the whimper. “What can I say, I’m a _giver_. Turn around, hands on the bed, and spread ‘em.”

You think about not complying, about spitting something sarcastic in his face, but the manic promise in his eyes makes you swallow hard in sick anticipation. You _want_ this, plain and simple. The sweet ache, the coil of arousal that’s been tightening inside of you, desperate to snap, commands your every move and you turn and saunter to the bed. Well, if your knees were working properly, you might have sauntered, swaying your hips like a sex kitten. Yeah, that would have been cool. As it happens, you more or less stumble your way there, planting your hands on the edge of your bed, back arched - waiting.

He’s on you in a heartbeat, yanking your pajama pants down and sliding a finger along your slick folds, as though fascinated. “Hooooo-ee, babe, that really got your motor runnin’, huh? That’s what gets you all hot under the collar, dead guy like me, fucking your face like he owns it? That, uh, that do it for you?”

He’s clearly waiting for a reply, and you nod, just once, flushing crimson with shame - or is it lust? Bit of both, to be honest.

“Then you are gonna _LOVE_ the main attraction.”

He’s toying with you, working the head of cock between your slick folds, dragging the moment out as long as he can with a self-satisfied snicker - you’re so frustrated you briefly debate turning around socking him in the face -

\- he slams into you, hard, no preamble, no prep, just a rough, single-minded motion that leaves you gasping. _Christ_ , he’s big, the stretch is incredible, too much and not enough at the same time. He stays still for a long moment, buried balls deep inside of you, hands finding your hips and clutching hard enough to bruise.

“Come _on_ ,” you grit out. You can't see his shit-eating grin, but you know it’s there. “Please, Beetlejuice -”

He snaps his hips forward, the words effectively dying in your throat, replaced by a low moan. Your hands twist in the fabric of your sheets, knees threatening to buckle as he sets a punishing pace, pounding into you, a never-ending stream of filth leaving his mouth. He angles his hips just right and you hear yourself _whine_ , like a fucking bitch in heat - he takes his as encouragement and pulls out, slowly, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock inside of you, before slowly pushing back in, feeding his length into you, watching you take every inch. “Oh, _that_ is _nice_ , worth the price of admission, yessiree _,_ ” he crows triumphantly, breathlessly, clearly taking enormously pleasure in watching you be thoroughly defiled.

You kind wish you could see it too.

Though you’re barreling towards orgasm like a runaway train you need something more, more friction, just a little bit - you slide a hand between your legs, desperately circling your clit with slick fingers.

Beetlejuice bats your hand out of the way - “Ah, ah, ah-” he tuts, as if he was a victorian schoolmarm and not a corpse who happens to be fucking you so good your eyes are rolling back in your head, “I’m a _gentleman_ , after all,”

“No you’re fucking not,” you spit back, but it’s hard to muster any kind of venom when his hands are on you, rough fingers finding exactly where you need him most. You cry out, a pathetic wail, every muscle in your body going exquisitely tense as you come, harder than you can ever remember coming, squeezing his cock tight as a fist. The poltergeist’s rhythm stutters, and he cackles that awful witch-laugh of his. “Just came around a dead guy’s dick, don’t think I didn’t catch that. You really are just _filthy_ , huh?”

He’s not _wrong_.

“ _YES_ ,” you cry out, half from spite, half because he’s pulling you back to meet every thrust, snarling like a wild animal, forcing little aftershocks of pleasure to sizzle through your body like electricity. He’s close, you can feel it, his pace picking up, his breaths coming harsher, shallower, his fingers tightening painfully on your hips. This time when you reach a hand down to desperately rub your clit he does nothing to stop you - your nerve endings are overstimulated, it almost hurts to touch yourself, but it feels right, your muscles shaking with the sheer effort of coming a second time. He thrusts, brutally hard, once, twice, three times - and growls his satisfaction as he comes, your orgasms aligning in perfect, grotesque, harmony.

_“BEETLEJUICE!”_

“Aaaaand that’s three! Catch you later, sweet cheeks!”

Just like that - he’s gone, your brain going a million miles a minute.

It’s only the come running slowly down your leg that convinces you it _actually_ happened.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say, but satisfaction brought it back. 

And you can't say you're not satisfied. 


End file.
